


Written In Not-Dreams

by for_the_love_of_wolves



Series: Tree, Wolf, Arrow, Mage [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bullying, Child Stiles Stilinski, Future Soulmate Relationships, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Prequel, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_the_love_of_wolves/pseuds/for_the_love_of_wolves
Summary: 10-year old Mischief starts to have visions of the future. He doesn't tell anyone. Life is stressful enough, even without them. His mother is fading in the hospital, his Dad is always sad, and at school, he's bullied by a group of older boys. Things change for the better when Cora Hale decides to put the bullies in their place.
Relationships: Cora Hale & Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski & Cora Hale
Series: Tree, Wolf, Arrow, Mage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064204
Comments: 7
Kudos: 126





	Written In Not-Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to this fic: [Mischief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995123)

The doctor has a fish tank in her office. 

Mischief knows it’s supposed to calm people down. They have one of these at the hospital as well. But he feels bad for the fish. No one asked them if they wanted to spend their life in a glass cage, floating between the same fake anemones and plastic algae all day. 

The chair Mischief is sitting on is too high. He kicks his feet restlessly - although he knows he shouldn’t, because it’s not polite to move around all the time - and rubs his hands over his jeans, the familiar roughness a soothing feeling. 

The doctor sitting opposite him has thick glasses and a greying bun. Her neck is long and thin. She looks a bit like Professor McGonagall from Harry Potter. Stiles had to press his lips tightly together, to contain that thought. He doesn't think it would be relevant to her.

“Did you have one of your dreams again?” the doctor asks, pushing at her glasses. 

Mischief shakes his head and suppresses the urge to correct her. Because they are not dreams. Not really. “No,” he says instead and glances at the floating fish. It’s a lie. He isn’t supposed to lie, and he feels bad for doing it, but he realized that everyone is really concerned about him at the moment. So concerned, they think he maybe should spend some time away from Beacon Hills. Should spend some time with an aunt who lives somewhere else, and Stiles doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to leave his home. 

The doctor smiles. “Okay. That’s good. But you’ll tell me, if they come back, alright? You can tell me everything about them. Even if they are scary, okay?” 

“Okay,” Mischief mutters. It’s a lie. Again. 

He has already decided he will never tell anyone about his not-dreams again. 

* * *

The thing about the not-dreams is, they come when they want. Mischief can’t pinpoint the point he will have one of them again. There can be hours between them, or days, or even two weeks. 

Another thing is, that no one is going to understand how it feels to have them, because … well, they are strange. Mischief is aware that he is not supposed to see the things he sees. Because … what he sees really happens. That sounds stupid and crazy. Mischief _knows_ that. But it doesn’t change the facts. 

It started when Mischief turned 10 years old. When his mother was already in hospital permanently and his Dad was sent home from work because they told him he was in no state to work. 

It started with a dream about someone at school having an asthma attack. Only a few days later, Mischief watched as a crowd formed around a boy on the floor of the school hallway, who was heaving and gasping helplessly, his face turning bright red. He was having an asthma attack. Mischief stood there, frozen in place, one thought loud and sharp in his mind: I’ve seen this before. 

And it happened again. Multiple times. Not only at night, also in the middle of the day, when he was sitting on his chair in the classroom. Pictures suddenly appeared in his mind. Like a movie without sound.

He day-dreamed his mother would ask him frantically who he is and would try to smother him with a pillow. And she did. He dreamed his Dad would sit at the kitchen table crying and drinking the bitter smelling liquid, and it happened exactly how he’d seen it in his not-dream. 

For some weird reason, Mischief is able to see snippets of the future.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t ask for it. But it still happens. And he has no one to share it with. He once told his Dad about the not-dreams. That led to a row of worried questions and finally, to an appointment with a doctor. They told him it might be a reaction to what is happening with his mother. They also mentioned group sessions, pills and a stay at a remote clinic. So Mischief decided to stay silent about the not-dreams. 

He feels really lonely with them. 

The not-dreams aren't always bad. Sometimes, he sees pretty harmless things. Like, a crying girl being comforted, or a lonely man sitting on a dusty couch, his head in his hands. Other times, the things he sees are really scary. He sees his Dad, yelling and throwing a bottle at someone he doesn’t know. He sees his mother in the hospital, talking to herself and rocking back and forth. He sees a deformed, black beast vaguely resembling a wolf, with red eyes and sharp fangs. 

There is one not-dream that recurs now and then. 

It starts with Mischief standing in front of an old, large tree stump. It’s buzzing with energy. It seems to pull him into its direction. 

Mischief walks forward without thinking, laying his hand on the tree stump. 

The energy runs through him. It feels like a thousand bees buzzing inside him. It is not an entirely unpleasant sensation. The tree seems to whisper. It whispers Mischief’s name. His real name. The one even he himself can’t pronounce properly. 

Then, there’s the sound of a cracking branch. Mischief looks up.

A huge wolf steps out from between the trees, looking at him with perked ears. It is completely white. The wolf’s eyes glow neon blue. 

Mischief doesn’t feel scared. Somehow, the presence of the wolf calms him. He knows that this is right. It hasn’t happened yet. It won’t happen in a long time. But it is going to be real someday. 

The wolf approaches him with slow and firm steps. When it comes closer, Mischief sees it’s carrying something in his muzzle. The wolf lays it on the tree stump. It’s an arrow. Mischief reaches out for the wolf and it stretches his neck.

A breath before they touch, Mischief is waking up from his blaring alarm clock. 

He blinks into the early sunlight and rolls around in bed, rubbing his eyes. He feels disappointed. The not-dream of the tree, the wolf and the arrow is his favourite. It’s the only one that doesn’t feel sad, scary or strange at all. It just feels … right. 

Mischief sighs and sits up. He has to go to school. He hates school. But he still has to go. Soon, his Dad will knock at his door, telling him to be ready in 10 minutes. He sighs again and reaches for the plush wolf his mother gifted him years ago. He puts the wolf into his bag. It's his good luck charm. And he is going to need it. Like every school day.

Sometimes, Mischief wishes he could live in his not-dreams. 

Just … for a while.  
  


* * *

All hell breaks loose in the classroom, when the bell announces the break. 

Mischief doesn’t like the breaks. They mean leaving the classroom - safe space, familiar space - and going outside, being exposed to a thousand different sensations. Kids everywhere, running, yelling, laughing, pushing. The noise mingles with various unpleasant smells and Mischief hurries through the hallways, breathing through his mouth and clinging to the straps of his bag. It’s going to be better outside, he knows. 

He always tries to reach a quieter corner of the yard, to avoid being discovered by the bullies. Sometimes, he’s lucky. Today, he’s not. 

The bullies, led by a boy called Max, who is large for his age and tries to make the most of it, corner him and shove him around, laughing and spilling insults. Other kids are looking away, too scared to be in the focus of the bullies. 

“What are you even doing here, Stilinski, huh? You can’t even pronounce your own name, just like a baby,” one of the boys says, pulling at Mischief’s bag, until it opens and its remains spill on the ground. 

“Look at that,” Max says, as he discovers the plush wolf. “Baby still carries a plushie around, awww!” His eyes fill with mean glee. He takes the plush wolf and shakes it in front of Mischief’s face. He reaches for it, but Max pulls it away, laughing. He throws the wolf away, into the dirt. Mischief feels the first tears gathering in the corners of his eyes at the sight. 

“Leave him alone,” a sharp voice suddenly says. Cora Hale steps forward, pushing past a few lurking kids and picking up the plush wolf.

Max looks surprised for a moment. But he quickly catches himself. “Or what?” he snarls, smirking at Cora. “Are you going to call a teacher, Hale? Are you a tattletale?” He takes a threatening step forward.

Cora doesn’t answer. She just moves smoothly, putting one foot behind Max’s and pushing at his shoulder with a hand. Max drops. It happens so fast, he doesn’t even make a sound. He lands in the dirt on his behind and stares up at Cora incredulously. 

Everyone is staring now. An astonished murmur goes through the crowd. 

Cora strokes her hair back and glares down at Max. “That’s your _or what_ ,” she says cooly. 

Mischief blinks. He can’t believe what just happened. He is still speechless, when Cora takes his hand, pulling him away from the other boys. 

“Thank you,” Mischief breathes, when they settle on a bench together and Cora hands him his plush wolf back. 

“You’re welcome. I hate boys who think they are so tough and cool while being stupid and mean. I hate when they think ganging up on someone makes them look strong,” she huffs.

Mischief glances up at her in silent awe. He thinks that Cora is really cool. “How did you learn to do that thing you did?” he asks curiously and wishes internally, he could fight like that too. Then, no one would dare to shove him around. 

“My uncle Peter taught me,” Cora says, pulling out a lunchbox. “It’s really easy. You just have to be in the flow - I can teach it to you, if you want.” 

“Yes, please,” Mischief says eagerly. The thought of learning something so awesome is enough to make his heart beat faster. Also, Cora just indicated they can spend time together. He has never spent time together with such a cool person. 

“I like your wolf,” Cora tells him after biting into an apple. “It’s so fluffy.” 

Her words make Stiles smile brightly. “Thanks."

“Do you want to be friends?” Cora asks almost casually. 

“Yeah! Sure!” Mischief tries to keep himself from jumping up in his excitement. 

Cora fist bumps him. “Now we’re friends,” she says, grinning. 

Mischief laughs. He feels great. 

After school, he meets Cora in the hallway and she walks with him to the entrance, telling him about her family. It is really huge. That’s why they live in a huge house. It’s in the woods. Mischief is fascinated. Cora surely sees a lot of animals. “Have you ever seen a wild wolf?” he asks excitedly, thinking of the white wolf in his not-dream. 

Cora falters in her steps for a brief moment. Then, she laughs. “No. Of course not. There are no wild wolves in California.” Her laugh doesn’t sound mean, so Mischief doesn’t feel so bad. He tells Cora goodbye and goes to wait for his Dad at the usual spot. While letting his gaze wander around, he discovers Cora again, hugging a man. The man lifts her off the ground effortlessly and Cora shrieks. 

Mischief wonders if the man is the uncle Cora talked about. Then, he feels a pang of pain while watching how the man buries his nose in Cora’s hair, his arms wrapped around her tightly. It looks like a really nice hug. An older boy walks towards Cora and the man, and they all enter a car. 

Mischief swallows and waits. When his Dad arrives, he looks like he has just cried. He doesn’t exit the car and just gestures for Mischief to get in. He is wearing his only suit.

“Are we going to visit Mum?” Mischief asks while climbing into the back and fastening his seatbelt. 

“Yes,” his Dad says. 

Mischief nods. “I made a friend,” he says after a while, fumbling with the buttons of his jacket. 

“Great,” Noah says absently, his eyes glued to the street in front of him. 

“Her name is Cora Hale. She is really cool. She can fight. Maybe, she is going to teach me how to defend myself," Mischief adds, rocking back and forth a bit in his excitement.

His Dad hums and stops at a red light. He raises a hand and rubs his eyes for a long moment. He sighs and turns to look at Mischief, smiling weakly. “I’m really happy for you, buddy. Sorry for being such a spoilsport.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Mischief tells him. “Can we buy flowers?”

Noah nods. “Sure. You pick them, alright? You always pick the best. She said so.” His voice breaks slightly at the end. It sounds like he is close to crying. 

Mischief remembers one of his not-dreams - his Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, looking broken - and his stomach clenches. 

* * *

Mischief hates the hospital, with its busy hallways, antiseptic smell and sharp whiteness. The only thing he likes about it is the flower shop. It smells nice and they have his mother’s favourites: cranesbills. 

His mother is laying on the long term ward. Mischief knows she won’t come home again. This was in a lot of his not-dreams. 

He slips one hand into his Dad’s while they are walking and presses the bouquet of flowers close with the other. 

Mischief really hopes they won’t meet any of the nurses. He knows they are just doing their best, but he hates when they tell him “It is going to be alright”, with their too cheerful smiles. It’s a lie. His Mum is going to die. She is fading a little more each day and soon, she won’t be there at all. And then, then she will take her last breath. 

He had a not-dream about the funeral. 

_We live and we die_ , Mischief thinks. _That’s one of the great truths of life. Something that can’t be changed._

It still sucks. 

He misses his mother so much. Misses how she used to read stories to him before bedtime. They were laying in Mischief’s bed and she had one arm wrapped around him, while she held the book with her free hand, reading the roles in different voices, which always managed to make Mischief laugh. 

He misses how they dressed up as magical creatures, how they took walks in the forest and she put her finger on her mouth, telling him to be quiet and not disturb the fae. And Mischief always looked around eagerly, trying to see them. 

“Always believe in magic,” she told him. “It’s all around you. It’s in you. You are magic, my little Mischief. My little wonder.” And she tapped his nose with a finger, laughing brightly. 

The doctor told Mischief to keep those little nice things he remembers about his mother in a box in his mind. That was one of the few things she said he actually liked. 

A box full of nice, gentle memories. A box no one else can open. Only him. 

_Maybe_ , Mischief thinks, when they enter the dim room and are greeted by the machines’ monotonous beeping, _maybe I could have told her about the not-dreams._

Maybe, she would have truly listened. Maybe, she could have understood … 

But by the time they made their appearance, his mother already started to fade. She already started to forget names, faces and places. She started to forget Mischief. Her wonder. 

She is sleeping now. Her pale face is slack. The rise and fall of her chest is barely visible. 

Mischief carefully takes her hand and hears the hitches in his Dad’s breaths. A nurse puts the flowers into a vase on the nightstand. It’s the same they used for the flowers last week. 

Mischief looks down at his mother and feels numb. His Dad wraps an arm around him carefully. 

This was a not-dream too. A recurring one. Because they are here so often. Waiting. Waiting for her to fade. It’s horrible. 

_Am I real wonder now?_ Mischief muses. _I believed in magic all the time and now? Am I something magical? Is there anyone in this world who can help me figure this out? Figuring_ me _out?_

A tear runs down his face, dripping from his chin, and he doesn’t even know if he’s crying for his mother, or for his own loneliness. 

* * *

“Can we go to McDonalds?” Cora asks as soon as she finished fastening her seatbelt. 

“There’s food at home,” Peter says, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. 

Cora pouts. “But it’s not McDonalds.” 

“No. It’s way better than McDonalds,” Peter tells her and wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know why you want to try to kill your taste buds with whatever they are trying to sell off as meat.” 

Cora rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t matter if we try to kill our taste buds, we can’t hurt them anyway!” 

Peter sighs and tries to change the topic. “Please tell me you didn’t get into any trouble today.” 

Although Derek is in the car too - staring down at his phone silently as usual - Cora knows exactly the question is targeted at her. “No,” she says quickly, then bites her lip. She almost forgot about the idiots bullying Mischief. “Well …”

“Cora,” Peter says, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s not like that, I defended someone,” Cora says. “Someone who is my friend now,” she adds proudly. 

Peter’s frown vanishes and he smiles. “Really? What’s their name?” 

“Mischief.” 

Derek snorts and looks up from his phone. “That’s not a name.” 

Cora glares at him. “Yes, it is. It is his name. He calls himself Mischief because he can’t pronounce his actual name. No one can. It is _his_ name, he can be who he wants and no one should make fun of it.” 

Derek raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Relax.” 

“And how exactly did you defend Mischief?” Peter asks, looking at her closely through the mirror. 

“He got bullied by some assholes who think they are oh so strong for ganging up on one kid, and I showed them their place,” Cora says smugly. 

Peter hums. “I am proud of you for helping someone. But please remember that we don’t want a lot of attention on us.” 

“I know, I really just did the drop move,” Cora explains. “Nothing too spectacular. I could have done way more, but I guess that was enough for that idiot. My eyes didn’t flash or something. I can control myself,” she looks pointedly at Derek, who grits his teeth. “I can control myself too,” he snarls and his eyes promptly flash golden.

“Stop it you two,” Peter scolds, frowning. “I want you both to be careful. Ever since the Argents came back, things have changed. They are just searching for a reason to rile up the other local hunters.” 

“There are treaties,” Derek says quietly, glancing up from his phone. “Mum said …” 

“Treaties are just pretty words on paper. Not everyone cares about them,” Peter remarks with a certain edge in his tone and Derek falls silent. 

Cora feels a hint of anxiety. She doesn’t like thinking and talking about the Argents. She is glad when Peter changes the topic back to Mischief. “He is human, I figure?” he asks. 

Cora shrugs. “I think so. He doesn’t smell supernatural. Can I invite him over for a weekend?” she asks hopefully, remembering she kind of already promised Mischief to show him the house. 

Peter hesitates. “I want to take a look at his family first,” he decides and Cora keeps herself from huffing. She reminds herself that this is what Peter does. He is just trying to protect the pack, like a Left Hand is supposed to do. After all, she aims to follow in his footsteps while Derek tends more towards the Right Hand of the next Alpha - that’s going to be Laura, their older sister. “What’s his surname? Do you know it?” Peter asks.

Cora knows. It’s easy to remember because it’s unusual. “Stilinski.”  
  
Peter’s brows shoot up. “Stilinski,” he repeats. “So his Dad must be the Sheriff?” 

“He mentioned that, yes. But I think his Dad is at home right now. Because Mischief’s mother isn’t well.” Cora bites her lip. “I think she is really sick. That’s why Mischief smells sad all the time.” 

Peter hums. He looks like he is thinking hard. Like he is remembering something. “You know,” he says slowly, turning at a corner. “I think we can go to McDonalds after all, I have to make a call.” 

On any other day, Cora would have cheered. But right now, she just nods and looks outside, wondering. Peter doesn’t change his mind often. And he seems to know something about Mischief. Her confusion quickly changes into curiosity. She wants to know what this is all about. 


End file.
